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Mama, I can’t tell you the things that make me sleepless,

I can’t tell you the things that make me forget to eat.

Mama, how should I tell you that I feel useless?

A child who doesn’t deserve the quantity of love that you give.

Mama, I can’t look you in the eye and tell you that I feel empty.

 I am not one of those blessed with the audacity to tell you,

To tell you that I want to write,

But I can’t pick up the pen.

Mama, I have no audacity to look you in the eye and say,

When I am home, I feel alive,

then suddenly feel sorry for not turning out to be good as you had hoped.

Ma, I can’t tell you that when I am away from home, I feel unalive.

That the only time I feel alive is when I am with that somebody’s son,

And even then, I sometimes wonder if he’s here for a short, good time or a long, good time.

I promise, I didn’t notice when my soul got tangled to his soul’s thread.

One thing though,

Mama, you are right.

I know why I can’t sleep.

I know why I forget to eat.

Ma, they are things I could tell you, but I can’t tell them to your face.

They are things I could write to you, but only the above.

The remaining answers, I don’t know how to say or pen,

But don’t worry,

I decided that some issues must be forced,

So once in a while I can pick up the pen,

Then I am completely reminded of what it’s like to be alive.

Don’t worry,

I decided to live one day at a time.


One thought on “UNALIVE

  1. And sometimes we pick of the past
    Of no control we have of the passed
    So hereby we forge into the light
    Hoping it won’t blind our sight
    That’s how we feel alive
    In fields we thought we couldn’t thrive

    Liked by 1 person

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